I am a Kentucky mountain girl far from home, perhaps far from the girl years. Still, my heart longs to return to the top of Low Gap mountain and peer off into the distance; to see the hills rolling and tumbling out before me, and the wind ruffling the trees' leaves, causing them to ripple like waves in some immense pond.

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Today was a very emotional day for me: a wooden crochet hook my mother gave me broke, and so did a piece of my heart.

My knitting bag fell over and got tangled in the back wheelchair wheels. Despite my best efforts to set it free so it could roam wild in all of its knitting goodness in one spot, I couldn't. This meant yarn was scattered from my front room into the living room and needles had fallen out and thus the crochet hook. Before I could move to use a crutch or grabber to get the crochet hook out of the way, my front wheel ran over it and broke it.

This sent me into tears. I was sure all was lost until Hubby called and said he was stopping by the house on the way to Church this evening. In less than five minutes of being home, he had the knitting bag strap untangled from the wheel and had placed several wayward balls of yarn seeking their freedom, or perhaps trying to commit suicide by tempting the cat, were collected and placed in easy reach for me to wind and set back to rights. Hubby then proceeded to the shower and I rolled yarn and cried.

The breaking of said hook brought everything very clearly into focus of my Mom's passing of March 11 four years ago.. Using the crochet hook in knitting projects (yes, you need a crochet hook when you knit) made me think about my Mom. Not in a sad way. It made me remember her smile and the way she would cock her head when she was listening to something funny, and how she would clap her hands during UK basketball (that's University of Kentucky Wildcats for the possibly uninitiated) games, or any time she was interested in what was happening around her. It reminded me of seeing her own hands at work in quilting and sewing, or crochet. I felt close to her, in a good way.

Hubby finished his shower and came out to greet me, still winding balls of yarn. "Why are you still sniffling? The bag is OK." I told him I was OK. "If you were OK you wouldn't still be sniffling. What's wrong?"

"It's the crochet hook. Mommy gave it to me." More tears. Sorrowful tears I tried desperately to quench.

Hubby went to Church and I finished winding the balls of yarn and even settled down long enough to knit one row on the leg warmers I am making myself.

I cried while I knit.

I cried while I lit the kerosene heater.

I cried while I heated and ate myself some supper.

I cried while I talked to a friend on the telephone.

Lucky for me the friend on the phone helped me to see positive things and get me distracted from my horrible loss.

Hubby came back from Church and as I was opening some roasted chicken I glanced down and there was the crochet hook. It had a piece of bamboo glued around it and it felt solid in my hand. All I could do was smile as tears welled up in my eyes.

"You are amazing," I said, although I'm not sure he fully understood just how wonderful a gift he had given me. Hubby just went about the business of fixing himself a snack as I rolled into the living room and slipped the repaired crochet hook into my knitting bag where it belongs. My heart was too full for words.

People don't understand how things can be important sometimes. They are just "things" after all. But usually those things are symbols and remembrances of a great and powerful love. They are irreplaceable, just like the people and memories they are associated with. Now the crochet hook is doubly more important to me. One, because my Mommy gave it to me. Two, because my husband cared enough about me to fix it so it could be used and a means by which I could always have my Mommy with me. This, ladies and gentlemen, is what is known as LOVE.